


In the Shadow of the Past

by Aki (Akiko_Natsuko)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Ambushes and Sneak Attacks, Blood and Injury, Friendship, Gen, Revenge, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 05:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19202800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiko_Natsuko/pseuds/Aki
Summary: There is blood on the wall.It’s Aramis that spots it first after all his sharp eyes are the reason that he’s their marksman and it’s his quiet noise of alarm that draws their attention. At a distance, it could be mistaken for a darker smudge of dirt on the smoke-darkened bricks, and for half a second, that is what Porthos tells himself it is. Then they’re level with it, and able to see the dull reddish-brown that marks it as blood, and more worrying the corresponding trail that leads towards the steps that lead up to Athos’ lodgings.





	In the Shadow of the Past

**Author's Note:**

> Whumptober prompts: Stabbed & Bloody Hands

 

_It was the scent that caught his attention first. Familiar even after all this time and just as alluring, and with the memories swirling around in his head it had been like a siren song, drawing him off the beaten path…_

****

Athos is late.

    It’s not so unheard of that it immediately incites panic, but rare enough these days, that there is an underlying tension amongst the other three, even as they try to busy themselves in putting D’Artagnan through his paces so that Athos can’t growl at them when…if…he puts in an appearance. But they’d be the first to admit that they were distracted, eyes straying to the entrance to the courtyard every few minutes. It’s only when D’Artagnan manages to disarm Aramis with a somewhat clumsy twist and thrust that would typically never catch the older man off guard and leaves him having to dance out of range that they admit defeat and abandon the act.

“We should go and check on him,” Aramis is the first to voice the thought, and there’s a look on his face that Porthos recognises from all the times they’ve been injured. He’s listing what could have happened, the potential damage and how he’s going to fix it, which might be amusing were it not for how often that happened, and the fact that he can see the other man is getting himself worked up.

“He’s probably just sleeping off a rough night.” It’s the closest they’ll come to mentioning Athos’ drinking, even though it has caused them all concern at some point or another. Although even Porthos has to admit that it’s worrying that he’s missing on a day when they are all expected to report in, because as lost as Athos can become in his own thoughts, particularly when the memories drive him into the bottle, he doesn’t forget his duty. Something that he’s still not sure whether it’s a blessing or a curse.

“Are you telling me that you’re not worried?” Apparently, Aramis is not in the mood to be placated this morning, because he rounds on Porthos, eyes flashing, and gaze focused in the same way it is when he’s focusing down the sights of his gun.

“No,” Porthos is quick to shake his head, throwing his hands up placatingly, because Aramis can be terrifying when he’s like this.  “I’m just…” He trails off, not entirely sure what he’d been trying to do because now that Aramis has pushed the issue, he’s aware of the undercurrent of worry in the back of his mind. The same feeling of wrongness that had forced them to track down Athos when he’d been taken back to his home, and considering what had happened then… He sighed and let his arms fall, glancing at D’Artagnan who is looking between them, visibly torn between amusement at his swift surrender and concern for their missing friend. “Let’s go and check on him, but if he’s just hungover, you get to deal with it.” _With him,_ is what he really means because Athos is a stubborn man at the best of times, but when he has a hangover, he became downright belligerent if they tried to help.

“You know why I’m pushing?” Aramis asks, even as he’s already moving, seizing on the agreement before it can be retracted, with D’Artagnan at his heels and Porthos sighed again, nodding before falling into step beside him. He did, and it had nothing to do with the fact that Athos was devoted to his duty. _Too devoted,_ he would and could admit in the privacy of his own thoughts, although he would never say as much when Athos was nearby. No, it was more to do with the way that Athos had all but slunk away from them the day before after their latest encounter with Milady, even going so far as to refuse their offer to go for a drink, given with the understanding that he wouldn’t tell them anything.

    One day they would get the full story from him, or at least Porthos hoped so because it was a deep wound. One that had scabbed over, but that threatened to tear open at the worst times, and more frequently since Athos’ ex-wife had appeared in their lives. For now, he would settle for making sure that nothing more untoward than Athos drinking himself into a stupor without them had occurred, and he found himself speeding up, pushing the other two to match his pace.

**

There is blood on the wall.

     It’s Aramis that spots it first after all his sharp eyes are the reason that he’s their marksman and it’s his quiet noise of alarm that draws their attention. At a distance, it could be mistaken for a darker smudge of dirt on the smoke-darkened bricks, and for half a second, that is what Porthos tells himself it is. Then they’re level with it, and able to see the dull reddish-brown  that marks it as blood, and more worrying the corresponding trail that leads towards the steps that lead up to Athos’ lodgings, weaving from side to side, and the bloody handprint on the corner as though someone had gripped it in a desperate attempt to remain upright. _Athos._ They don’t say it, but it’s there unspoken as they share a look, and it’s Aramis who breaks the silence, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Still think it’s just a hangover?” He’s already moving, not giving Porthos a chance to reply, as he takes the stairs two at a time.

    There is more blood on the steps, and a smear by the door where someone. _Athos_ … He can’t hide from that anymore, has leant against the wall while struggling with the lock, bloody fingerprints on the wood telling him that had probably been a task and a half.

“Athos!” He called, waiting for half a second, not really expecting an answer at this point before he shoved the door open. Not sure whether to be relieved or worried when the door opens easily, letting him step inside.  “Athos are you….?” The question dies on his lips, becoming a string of curses in a confused, tumbling mixture of French and Spanish as he darts forwards, because Athos is on the floor, sprawled just short of the bed as though his body had given out mid-step. “Athos!”

“Aramis? What is it? Do you have him?” Porthos has followed, D’Artagnan close on his heels and Aramis isn’t sure which of them curses first and doesn’t really care as he barks an order at them, already on his knees beside Athos, reaching out with hands that tremble until he wills them to stillness.

“Open the curtains, I need some more light!” It takes less than a minute for the sunlight to pool into the small room, glistening against the blood that has pooled beneath their friend, and Aramis can feel the trembling threatening to return because this is bad. “Athos?” He calls again, voice deliberately low and soothing, not wanting Athos to come to life thinking he’s being attacked. That’s happened before, and it’s an experience that he doesn’t want to repeat; however, this time, there is not so much as a twitch from the other man.

It’s not reassuring.

     Careful, and highly aware of the eyes watching his every movement, he scoots forward and gets a hand under Athos’ cheek, tilting his face upright. Cursing as he takes in the bruising down the right side of his friend’s face, the blood drying on Athos’ lips and from a deep cut that runs across his forehead and down through his eyebrow, and the smaller cuts littering his nose and his other cheek. He’s been beaten, and Aramis is practically vibrating with rage now, especially when he realises that he can’t smell alcohol on his friend, which means that the trouble had found him rather than the other way around. It’s only the fact that these wounds can’t be responsible for the blood they’d seen, and the fact that Athos is still beneath his touch, the ragged breaths now tickling his palm the only reassurance he has right now that the other man is still with them. “He’s alive.” He manages to report, knowing that it’s not fair to keep that from the others, and glad that he has when he hears the matching sighs of relief from behind him. “Athos,” he tries again, making himself curl his fingers against the bruised cheek, patting it lightly. It earns him the tiniest furrowing of Athos’ brow, but it doesn’t seem to be enough to rouse him, and they don’t have the time to waste on waiting for him to wake up.

    Reaching over his shoulder he pulls off his cloak, bundling it up and tucking it under Athos’ head, tilting his head to keep as much pressure off the bruising as possible. It’s not much, but it’s all he has right now. Next, he begins the process of tracking down where the rest of the blood is coming from. He finds small gashes on Athos’ arms, and his hands are a mess – defensive wounds his mind coldly supplies, the rage building, and he can hear restless movement behind him, realising that Athos isn’t the only one needing his help right now. “D’Artagnan I’m going to need my kit, and extra bandages, I doubt he has much in here that will be of use.”

“I…” D’Artagnan begins to protest before cutting himself off, and although Aramis isn’t looking, unable to tear his gaze away from Athos, he can imagine how their youngest’s shoulders have slumped. “I’ll be right back.” His voice is dripping with reluctance, but there is none of it in his movement as Aramis hears him turn and hurry back out of the door, going down the steps so fast that it’s a miracle he doesn’t fall and break his neck. He prays that it won’t be their only miracle today. “Porthos, can you clear the bed, and I’ll need you to help me move him once we’ve dealt with wherever this blood is coming from.” The other wounds are rage-inducing, but they can wait until he’s comfortably settled on the bed, whatever lays hidden out of sight can’t.

“Is he going to be okay?” Porthos isn’t so quick to obey, and this time, Aramis does risk a glance over his shoulder, unsurprised to see the anger darkening his friend’s features. It makes him feel a little better about the rage simmering under his skin, and he wishes that he had a more reassuring answer to give as he tilted a shoulder. _I’m not sure._

“If I have anything to say about it.”

“Then he’ll be fine.” Pure, unadulterated faith colours the words and Aramis swallows and turns back to Athos, praying that he’s right, barely aware of Porthos moving to do as he’d asked as he resumes his search for the wound.

    It’s not the blood that tells him that’s found it or even the hilt that meets his searching fingers, but the way that Athos comes to life beneath him with a hoarse cry. A flailing elbow clocks the side of his chin, and it throbs, but he doesn’t flinch back, desperately trying to stop Athos before he can cause himself further harm by rolling onto the wound. “Athos! Athos you’re safe! It’s me. It’s Aramis and Porthos!” He’s not sure whether it’s his frantic words, or pain and exhaustion that leave Athos slumped beneath his hands, mercifully leaning away from the wound, his chest heaving, a low, ragged noise building in the back of his throat. “Easy, I’ve got you,” Aramis soothes him, already knowing it’s not enough, and it’s a relief when Porthos crouches beside him. “Can you hold him? I need to get a proper look.”

“Come ‘ere,” Porthos is gentle as he pulls Athos into him, giving Aramis a clear view of the wound, shushing Athos’ quiet noise of protest at the movement. A quiet noise that builds into something more as Aramis shifts round to the other side, fingers ghosting across his friend’s back until it comes to the hilt he had felt before. It’s a small blade. A belt dagger and nothing more, and he supposes that he should be grateful for small mercies, but it’s hard to remember that when there’s nothing hiding him from the sight of the blood beneath Athos, or where the wound is.

“They came at him from behind,” his fingers are gentle, not matching the growl that bubbles up in his throat as he all but spits. “Cowards.” Porthos echoes his growl, but it’s muted as he tries not to startle Athos who has settled a little, although the tense way he’s holding himself tells Aramis that he’s still conscious. “Athos,” he murmurs, forcing his voice to drop, low and soothing, waiting until he gets the tiniest grunt of acknowledgement before continuing. “I need to look at this, and it might hurt, but you have got to stay still.” There’s a low groan that might be agreement, and it’s Porthos who replies, shifting to make sure he has a better grip on Athos.

“I’ve got him.”

    Taking a deep breath and sending a quiet prayer that the damage isn’t too severe, he moves closer, spreading his fingers around the hilt. Athos trembles beneath him, breath catching, and Aramis murmurs an apology but doesn’t stop as he carefully eases a finger through the torn, bloody leather, pulling it back enough to get a good look at the wound without having to touch the blade itself. It’s deep but not as deep as it would have been with a different blade, and still bleeding albeit sluggishly, but it looks as though it should have mercifully missed anything vital. It’s closer to the side than he had thought it previously lets out a shuddering breath as he glances up and finds Porthos watching him with worried eyes.

“It’s deep, but I think he’s been incredibly lucky.” The words taste foul on his lips, because if they hadn’t come when they had. If the blade had been a little to the left. _We could have lost him._ He doesn’t want to think it, but it creeps in any way, and it might have taken over if Athos hadn’t chosen that moment to speak up, somehow finding the strength to manage an approximation of his usual drawl, albeit more breathless than usual.

“…I…feel incredibly lucky…”

        There’s a moment of incredulous silence, and then Porthos snorts before smoothing his fingers over Athos’ shoulder as the effort of talking leaves him gasping with pain.

“Sure, you do.”

     Aramis shakes his head, but he’s bolstered by the words, and he glances around to see if there’s anything he can use for a bandage until D’Artagnan returns. He doubts their youngest will take long, hoping that he doesn’t bowl over too many people in his hurry, realising that’s a wasted hope because it’s Athos on the ground with a dagger in his back. Unfortunately, nothing immediately greets his searching eyes, Athos’ rooms are frustratingly spartan, and he doesn’t want to disturb Athos again, especially when speaking clearly pains him. Grumbling under his breath and making a note to make them all stock supplies for the future he casts a mournful look down at his own shirt, before pulling his hands back, fingers bloody and trembling a little as he fumbles with the buttons of his doublet, letting it fall aside. “What are you…?” He interrupts Porthos’ question by taking hold of the bottom and pulling. It takes embarrassingly long to get it to rip, and he can practically feel Porthos vibrating with the need to reach out and help, but eventually, it tears, and he manages to end up with a ragged length of fabric.

“Athos, I need to remove the dagger so we can stop the bleeding and I don’t want to wait for D’Artagnan.”

“I rather like it where it is…” Athos mumbles, clearly not appreciating the idea of having it removed and facing the pain that will undoubtedly follow, and there’s a pause, before he sighs, shoulders falling and then hitching as he immediately regrets the movement. “G-G-Go ahead…” There’s a world of trust in those whispered words, and Aramis almost smiled, reaching out to brush a hand over tense shoulders.

_Thank you for trusting me._

“Hold him,” he orders Porthos, whose brief burst of humour is well and truly gone now, jaw clenched tight as he nods and moves so he has a better hold on Athos. “Try and hold still for me,” he murmurs to Athos, letting his hand linger on his shoulder for a moment before pulling away, eyes locked on the hilt as he wills his hands to stillness. “On the count of three. One…” He grips the hilt in now steady fingers and pulls it out as smoothly as he can, relieved that the blade isn’t curved or serrated, deciding there and then that he never wants to hear that awful, strangled noise from his friend again, as Athos bucks against the hold that Porthos has on him.

“Easy Athos just breathe for us. Just breathe,” Porthos is pleading, and Aramis wants to help him, but he’s too busy checking the wound, pleased to realise his earlier assessment seems to be true before he uses the piece of cloth to press down on it. Athos groans at the pressure and tries to move away from him, but neither of them let him move, Porthos not voicing any complaint as Athos grips him with shaking fingers, the hold turning bruising as he tried to ride out of the wave of pain. “That’s it, deep breaths…”

“I hate…you…” Athos manages to gasp a few minutes later, still trembling as Aramis keeps up the pressure, but his grip on Porthos slowly loosens as he tilts his head to peer over his shoulder at Aramis. They still need to deal with his face as well, but despite the pain clouding his vision, and the red-rimmed eyes that speak of tears that he had been too stubborn to let fall, he looks a little more alert as he blinks at Aramis for a moment.  “You said you’d count to t-three.”

“I lied,” Aramis admitted with a smile. This they’ve done before, and despite the stress and worry still needling at him, and the rage that hasn’t dimmed in the slightest, he finds comfort in the exchange. “But then you expected that.”

“I did…”

    The weaker than usual banter is interrupted by the sound of pounding footsteps, and the door bursts open as D’Artagnan all but falls through the door, Aramis’ pouch and a bundle of bandages stacked high in his arms. He’s breathing heavily, having clearly run there and back and he doubles over for a moment, still clinging to his burden, before peeking through his hair at the threesome, visibly brightening when he realises that Athos is awake albeit fading. The wounded musketeer seems to realise, attempting a smile that is more of a grimace, before he quirks a bloody eyebrow at D’Artagnan.

“Did you leave any b-bandages behind?” They all hear the way his voice cracks and breaks, his entire body jerking against the pain in his back, but they don’t comment, and D’Artagnan’s answering smile is only a little shaky.

“The Captain insisted,” he replied, straightening and moving to drop the materials next to Aramis, smile falling when he spies how red the cloth the other man is holding is, swallowing hard before continuing. “He wants a full report as soon as one of us can leave.”

“You…” Athos begins immediately.

“We are not leaving you.” The three of them growl in unison, only to blink at one another in shock before glancing at Athos whose eyebrows are nearly lost in his hairline as he stares at them before he slowly closes his mouth.

“And they say stubborn fools can’t learn,” Aramis remarked smugly, even as he reached for the pouch D’Artagnan brought him. “Here, keep the pressure on this for me,” he asks, and D’Artagnan paled for a moment before obeying, slightly tentative before pressing down on the cloth, flinching in sympathy as Athos groans and tries to move away from the change in pressure. However, he doesn’t let up, and Aramis nods approvingly, before leaning forward to try and capture Athos’ attention as he adds softly, realising that the other man is fading fast, eyes hooded. “I need to stitch this up, and then we need to see to your face as well.”

“Besides, we still don’t what happened,” Porthos added after a moment, glancing at Athos who paled and looked away, clamming up immediately. It’s enough to have them all sharing another look, worried this time, but they’re not willing to push until he’s at least bandaged and settled in the bed. Although Aramis hesitated for a moment, wanting to take advantage of the fact that Athos is awake to ask what happened, but he doubts that he will be able to focus on what needs doing, confident that the answer will fuel his anger. Besides, a quick look at Athos confirms that it would be a wasted effort, because the other man is worryingly white now, eyes threatening to close with each slow blink, face lined with pain, and he forces the question down as he searches for his needle and thread.

“You’re going to have to tell us eventually,” he settles for saying eventually, fingers nimble as he threads the needle, even as he keeps his gaze on Athos who goes rigid at his words. “If only so Porthos can beat them up.” As though they all wouldn’t be involved in that, and considering the pile of bandages that D’Artagnan brought back, he has a feeling Treville wouldn’t object too much. But he decides not to add that as Athos’ expression darkens, before he lets his face push into the cloak beneath his head, hiding from all of them, tension radiating from him. “But later,” Aramis soothes, unsurprised when his words don’t seem to help, and there’s an uneasiness now, one that’s creeping beneath the anger.

_Athos, what happened to you?_

 

 


End file.
